Aftermath: The Way to a Man's Heart
by geekmama
Summary: It's Christmastime, and Molly's Mince Pies are the least of it...


**~ The Way to a Man's Heart ~**

_**Molly's Mince Pies are the least of it...**_

* * *

Written for my Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018 recipient, Imogen74 (poetattemptsfiction on tumblr), whose favorite tropes were Post TFP, Angst, Comedy. It's set a year after Aftermath: The Christmas Album that I wrote for last year's 12 Days of Sherlolly, but I believe it works as a stand-alone one-shot. Merry Christmas in March to all you lovely folks!

* * *

_How does he do it?_ was Mycroft's first thought, his brain momentarily defenseless under the onslaught of delicious scents that assailed him when his brother threw open the wreath-bedecked front door.

Roasting turkey… and mince pies, just taken from the oven...

And Sherlock, fit as ever in his perfectly tailored shirt and trousers, a blue silk dressing gown thrown over all, knew exactly what Mycroft was thinking. A glint came into the pale eyes and he drawled, by way of greeting, "If you had a four-month-old baby, you'd be able to indulge in mountains of mince pies, too, without any negative effect."

Mycroft glared slightly and snapped, "Heaven forbid."

"Oh!" said Sherlock, his brows rising. He tilted his head toward the bundle curled against his shoulder and said, "Did you hear that Will? You can take that as an insult, if you like."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and chose to ignore this. He said, instead, "Do you really subsist only on mince pies? Of course, Molly _is_ a pathologist rather than a nutritionist." He raised a brow of his own.

"Molly is an angel," Sherlock said, simply. "Though what she'll say to us sniping at each other even before you're through the door doesn't bear contemplation. Come in, Mycroft. I'll get you a drink."

Mycroft could not quite suppress a smile. "An angel?" he queried, obediently crossing the threshold into the warmth of Molly's house. It was Sherlock's, too, of course, now, but there was far less of him in this well-kept, homey environment than there was at 221B, which now served as only his office. The fact that this house was just now replete with the trappings of Christmas only added to the Molly-ness of the place. "How times have changed."

"They have indeed," Sherlock said. Patting young Will's back, he led the way to the drinks cabinet. Several bottles of good liquor and a quantity of cut glass barware sat sparkling faintly in the reflected light of the enormous Christmas tree in the opposite corner of the living room.

"Domestic Bliss," Mycroft observed, with only a little irony. "Where is the happy wife and mother, by the way?"

Sherlock said, as he poured out a whiskey for each of them, "She and Mummy walked down to that shop on the corner. They needed something last minute for the dinner - of course! Dad's out in the back garden. He and Molly are planning a sort of raised bed for herbs and tomatoes next summer. Here we go." He turned and handed Mycroft a glass, then took up his own and raised it. "To Domestic Bliss. And angelic wives."

Mycroft could hardly help smiling. He lifted his glass, too, and then took a sip. The whiskey was excellent.

The baby, stirring, made a sort of cooing noise and reached for Sherlock's glass with a tiny hand.

Sherlock laughed. "Will, your mother would murder me! Give it a few months, at least." He went and sat on one end of the sofa, put his glass on the end table and the baby on his knee.

Mycroft sat in an adjacent chair and watched father and son, wondering a little at the sight. After a minute he said, "I take it you're not bored yet?"

"Bored? Not in the least! You have no idea how fascinating babies are, Mycroft. I'm running all manner of experiments with him."

"Experiments?" Mycroft frowned.

"Nothing that will hurt him. Just observation, and tracking statistics. He's almost sleeping through the night, now, you know. Takes one feeding at about four and goes back down until nine!"

"Nine! A late sleeper, like his father, then. I suspected that must be the case as you no longer sport the disheveled, bleary-eyed look of those first couple of months."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, bouncing the baby a bit and giving him a crooked smile. "A touch of colic, eh Will? Very difficult for all of us. But we got through it, didn't we?"

The baby, who had been watching Sherlock's every move and change of expression, gave a crow and flailed his arms.

Sherlock grinned as though Will had solved the crime of the century.

Mycroft said, "He seems very… responsive."

"He's _brilliant!_" Sherlock asserted.

Mycroft managed not to laugh.

But Sherlock had seen, out of the corner of his eye, and he chuckled somewhat ruefully. "Yes, perhaps Moriarty was right. I _am _ordinary. Just like every other father." Then he looked up and met Mycroft's eye. "But it doesn't _feel _ordinary. Not at all."

His humor was fading away, and Mycroft knew well what was going through his mind. After the events of Sherrinford, life - and love - could not be taken for granted.

Sherlock drew his son close, then, and placed a tender kiss on the baby's forehead.

A wave of sentiment threatened even Mycroft at that moment. But happily, before things could get out of hand, the front door opened and the ladies walked in.

"We're back!" Molly announced, unnecessarily, and as he and Sherlock rose to their feet she appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed, pink-cheeked and clad in a perfectly blinding Christmas jumper.

Jaded as Mycroft liked to think he was, the word _adorable _could not but occur.

And clearly Sherlock agreed. His eyes alight, he went straight to Molly and bent to give her a chaste kiss in greeting. Then he said, "Thank God you're back. Mycroft arrived and I needed you desperately."

"What? To pour out the whiskey?" she teased. "I think you've been doing just fine without me."

Mummy, who'd come in behind Molly, said, "None of that, now. It's Christmas, my sons, and you are both far too old for such nonsense on this day of days. Come here, my darling boy!" This last was directed at the baby, who gave a delighted screech as his grandmother claimed him.

Sherlock, relinquishing his son, took advantage of the situation by slipping an arm around his wife and giving her another kiss, this time on her nose. "Cold!" he remarked.

"But not wet!" she quipped, quite in Molly fashion, and then laughed, the color in her cheeks turning to rose. She put up a hand and briefly caught the edge of Sherlock's dressing gown, smoothing it with her fingers, a gesture at once shy and possessive.

And there was that wave of sentiment again.

He cleared his throat.

Molly turned to him. "Sorry! How are you, Mycroft? I wish Alicia could have joined us, too. She's in Scotland for the whole week?"

He nodded. "The demands of a daughter. Those twins of hers take a deal of management. I was invited as well, but with the situation in Albania…"

"And Will is just a bit less tiresome than two-year-old twin girls?" Sherlock suggested, the glint back in his eye.

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Perhaps."

Molly smiled, but reprovingly, and she shook her head. "I'm sure they're adorable, and Alicia is having a wonderful time with them. But come into the kitchen. I think I hear your father coming in and he'll be freezing if he's been in the garden all this time. I'll make some tea, and there are mince pies just out of the oven. I'm surprised you didn't offer him one, Sherlock?"

"Why would you be surprised? You know he'll snaffle the lot if he gets the chance," Sherlock sniffed.

And Molly gave Mycroft's brother a playful smack on the arse.

**o-o-o**

That wave of sentiment. Mycroft had always objected to such things. The lack of control it indicated. Cold logic set aside. But this Christmas had him particularly on edge with what could only be termed _The Spirit of the Season_, and later, after the Watsons' arrival, and a truly fine dinner, the singing of carols around Molly's spinet, and perhaps a little too much to drink, Mycroft found himself staring for a long moment when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock and Molly in the short, shadowed hallway between the laundry and powder room. They were enjoying another kiss, one that was not chaste in the least, and when they broke apart, Molly put her hand up to touch her husband's cheek with infinite tenderness and her lips formed those fatal words. And Sherlock smiled and returned them to her, with such a light in his eyes…

Mycroft slipped away. Back into the glare of the kitchen, the clatter of crockery, the drone of Mummy's voice expounding to John Watson on a variety of banalities while Father kept an eye on little Rosie and Will.

How he missed Alicia. She knew and understood him to a great degree, and was at once both down-to-earth and gratifyingly refined. And beautiful.

But he had to admit, after all was said and done – and there was _so much_ that had been said and done in these last few years – Mycroft's little brother Sherlock was a very lucky man indeed.

~.~

Written for poetattemptsfiction (Imogen74) in the Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018 celebration.


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